


The One He Cannot Lose

by Guanin



Series: Antipodal Shadows [4]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gotham's latest vigilante has attacked Jim Gordon with a deadly toxin. Jim is in the hospital, dying, but Oswald can't let him die. He cannot let this man die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One He Cannot Lose

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos on this series. I really appreciate every one of them. I hope you enjoy this installment.

It hurt. Everything, every single bone and muscle in Jim’s body was imploding with pain. 

Breathe. 

Fuck. 

He couldn’t even breathe.

Oh God, it hurt so much. His vision was swimming, shapes, lights, all too bright, assaulting his eyes, making him gasp and curl away, whimpering. 

A hard surface hit his body, scratchy, covered with dirt that made him cough. 

The sidewalk. He’d been walking down the sidewalk. That dart was still in his clenched fist, the one he’d pulled out of his neck, just like the others, a thin, long shaft with a blue head. He recognized it, tried to call Harvey, but his phone, he couldn’t reach it, couldn’t get his hand past his pocket before his whole body stiffened, contracting into itself, agony ripping through his spine, convulsing down his legs, making him fall to his knees, gasping for air.

Air. He needed air.

 _Harvey. Someone call Harvey_.

But no words made it past his lips, trapped on his tongue.

_He’s here. Harvey, he’s here._

_He’s…_

`````````````

It had been an evil fucker of a case right from the start. Some Viper/Balloonman wannabe was attacking corrupt higher ups again. Only this drug wasn't a quick, few hours thing. The victims lingered on for two days, twisting with pain and nightmares, and the doctors couldn’t do a damn thing about it except take tests that went nowhere and try to control the pain, “try” being the operative word. The lucky ones passed out, until the nightmares woke them again. 

First they attacked a banker, then a CEO, then another banker, all within 24 hours. So much for trying to find a particular disgruntled employee when three different companies were involved. Then a hot dog vendor got the short straw, which threw all their attempts at determining a pattern out the window. The only clue they had appart from the blood analysis was the darts the fucker used to inject the poison. They were all long, spearhead darts designed for blowguns. Who the hell used a blowgun in the middle of a city? It was hardly the most inconspicuous thing to be carrying down the street. People would notice it. Or, you would think people would notice, except, apparently, no one had, because they had zero witnesses. So they tried to figure out who would have the scientific knowhow to create a toxin that no doctor in Gotham could figure out. Starting with WelZyn because they had already proven to be dirty, they investigated everyone they could find with a PhD in chemistry in the city, every pharmacist, every chemistry teacher. At least, they started to, because before they could get halfway through the list, this asshole blew a dart into Jim’s neck and Harvey was ready to draw blood. 

Two days. That’s how long this asshole’s reign of pain had lasted. Two, stinking days and the first victim kicked the bucket that night. The second one was on his way. Nygma had isolated the components of the drug, but no one knew how to counteract it. Jim was dying. They had no clue who was doing this and Jim was fucking dying. He didn’t even fit the victim profile. He wasn’t corrupt, didn’t cheat anyone, didn’t lie on his taxes. Even the hot dog vendor had turned out to be a domestic abuser who avoided paying alimony. Jim was decent, honest. Had the killer bothered to learn that about him? Did he just see a cop and think, what the hell? He’s probably dirty, too? 

So Harvey made the call. There would be no perp to arrest if Cobblepot found him. There wouldn't even be a body. Jim wouldn't like that. But he would be alive. If the asshole had manufactured an antidote, which he better as fuck have. 

It took a few seconds of nervous fumbling to find Cobblepot's number in Jim's phone, because Jim had him under his first name, not his last name, which made sense once Harvey saw it. It had been a while since the last time that Jim had referred to him as Cobblepot. These days, it tended to be simply Oswald. 

"Hello," Oswald answered. He sounded upbeat, no doubt because he thought Jim was calling. 

"Cobblepot. It's Bullock."

"Detective Bullock," Oswald's good humor melted into frosty politeness verging on threatening. "May I ask why you are calling me from Jim's phone?"

"You heard of that bastard who’s poisoning people with a blowgun?”

“I saw it in the paper.”

“He attacked Jim. An hour ago. Jim’s in the hospital. The doctors still can’t figure out how to counteract this drug and the first victim is already dead and we have no clue how to find this guy. So if you have any thoughts, now would be the time.”

"Tell me everything you know. Now.”

Cobblepot’s voice brooked no argument. 

“There’s not much. The most I can tell you is who we’ve ruled out and what we know of the toxin.”

“Which hospital is Jim at?”

“Gotham General.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“They have him sedated, but I don’t know if they’ll let you see him.”

“I’ll persuade them. Keep this phone on you.”

Harvey hurried to the station to get the info he needed. He could get in a shitload of trouble for handing over police intel like this, but in a town this bent and with Jim dying, he doubted that Captain Essen would care too much. Even Montoya and Allen might give him leeway since they were now all sweet on Jim. 

_Where are you?_ Oswald texted.

 _10 mins away_ , Harvey texted back.

He found Oswald standing outside Jim’s room, watching him through the glass window. Harvey had never seen a look that intense on his face before. Furious. Worried. Terrified. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, eyes promising death.

This wasn’t a crush or simple lust like Harvey had suspected when he saw Cobblepot staring at Jim in the car a few weeks ago. 

_Fuck, Jim. What the hell have you gotten into?_

``````````  
Oswald was going to hack the attacker’s face off. For every time that Jim tossed in bed with pain scrunching his brow, he would smash a bone, shred a ligament, rip skin off. He would claw into the man’s face until there was nothing left but skull crushed under his heel.

He hadn’t paid any attention to this latest killer when he saw the headlines in the paper. It was nothing to do with him unless Jim asked him for help on it. And Jim hadn’t. Oswald wished he had now. No one had the right to hurt Jim. No one. 

As soon as he had hung up on Bullock, he sent his men on the search for any whisper of who this killer might be and to interrogate black market dealers who specialized in pharmacology. Someone always knew something. Someone had sold this guy the ingredients for the drug, and labs weren’t easy to hide. Meanwhile, he rushed to the hospital. Bullock better have something useful to give him, because finding someone could take days and, if the first target was already dead, and it had barely been over two days that meant that he had less than that time to find this son of a bitch and tear his throat open after getting a cure, because Jim couldn’t die. He couldn’t. Not on Oswald’s watch. Not when Jim was so precious and necessary to him. 

If you went by logic, Jim Gordon wasn’t, strictly speaking, necessary. Everyone Oswald associated with in the course of his business was expendable. If it came to it, Oswald could replace him with a different cop, maybe even Bullock. Buying one was easier than tying your shoelaces. But simply contemplating that possibility made bile rise in Oswald’s mouth, his stomach heaving as he grew lightheaded and a spear of ice slashed through his spine and made his limbs weak. He wished he’s brought his umbrella to have something to lean against and hold onto when he saw Jim lying on that bed, sweat soaking his brow, eyes skittering within his eyelids in the grip of a horrible dream, his mouth clenched in a pain that the doctors assured him was much relieved by the sedatives they were pumping into his system. They hadn’t wanted to let him into the room, not even into this part of the hospital, but he persuaded the staff easily enough. Everyone who refused him learned quickly not to say “no” to him unless they wanted something ugly to happen to them. 

Yet, when he had arrived at said room and saw Jim through the window, he hesitated, fearing revealing too much of himself. His insides were already burning just watching him struggle though this glass barrier. This man could never be expendable to him. Never. 

“Mr. Cobblepot,” one of his men said. 

Oswald turned to his left to find that Bullock had finally arrived. He carried a manila folder in his right hand.

“Is that the information I need?” Oswald asked.

“It’s what little we’ve got,” Bullock said, handing him the folder. “There are copies of the drug analysis in there and a list of people we’ve been looking into.”

“I will find this man, I promise you.” 

“If I can’t, you better.”

Oswald bristled at the tone. Bullock noticed, for he leaned in and said,

“You’re not the only one who cares about Jim here. You think I don’t want to put a bullet in this asshole’s brain?”

Oh, Oswald wanted to do substantially more than that. 

“I appreciate that, detective.”

“Yeah, you appreciate that. I know better now than to get on your bad side.”

“As long as you’re not on Jim’s, you have nothing to fear from me."

”Yeah. I’m noticing that.”

Oswald regarded him for a moment longer, then turned back toward Jim.

“I’ll keep in touch,” he said.

“So will I.”

He listened to Bullock’s departing footsteps, then told his men, “Wait out here,” and entered the room. Jim looked a little calmer now than before, more still, though his heightened heart rate remained unaffected. Putting the envelope on the side table, Oswald placed his right hand on Jim’s forehead. It was sweaty and feverish. Oswald caressed his moist skin with his thumb as he leaned in close to Jim’s ear so that only he would heard him.

“I am going to get him for you. I will make him cure you. And you won’t like what I’ll do to him, but he will deserve it. He will deserve everything.”

Stroking his hand down Jim’s hair, Oswald kissed him on the forehead, letting his mouth linger, inhaling Jim’s heat while he still could. He wasn’t going to, had told himself that he could control the impulse, but he grabbed Jim’s left hand and kissed it, too, planting his lips firmly on his knuckles, twining his fingers with his. 

Silently apologizing for taking the liberty, he carefully placed his hand down on the blanket and left the room, envelope gripped in his hand. 

``````````  
He canvassed the black market dealers with ruthless efficiency, politely at first, of course. Maintaining good business relations was always preferred, but if they didn’t cooperate fully, he hardly had a choice, now did he? Two of them described the same man buying ingredients from them the week before. A third one, interrogated by Bullock, mentioned the purchase of lab equipment. But there was no name, of course not. Just a physical description: short, around 5’ 4”, with light brown hair, and a slightly crooked nose, clearly broken at some point. A former pharmacist in the list of chemists that Bullock had given him had a broken nose. Harold Manning. He had been laid off three months ago. Economic downturn. The company had to make cuts somewhere. That would make one peeved at CEOs and bankers who got rich off of government bailouts. 

No current employment. Or address. The one listed on his record yielded only a frightened landlady and a half empty apartment with a stained carpet and the faint reek of ammonia in the surprisingly spotless extra bedroom. Someone had cleaned up. It wasn’t the most common thing for pharmacists to have their own private labs in their apartments, now was it? A clandestine lab for a man with no job who was waltzing around the city with a blowgun. That’s what they needed to find. Bullock couldn’t match his social security number to any apartment currently being rented, so he was likely squatting. And wasn’t that the best way to hide lab equipment, really? 

Unfortunately, in a city as ravaged as Gotham, abandoned buildings were a dime a dozen, and Jim couldn’t wait for them to search the entire city. So he did the only sensible thing. Bullock put an APB out on him. Oswald could do better. He offered a reward of $10,000 to anyone who could locate and drag Manning to him still alive. It might cause trouble if Manning was associated with a rival criminal syndicate, but Oswald couldn’t care less. It did, however, come to the attention of Don Maroni, which was not ideal, but he probably would have learned about the manhunt eventually. In his haste, Oswald wasn’t following his usual discretion. Until now, Oswald had been careful to not flaunt his relationship with Jim because he was supposedly Falcone’s man. By default, someone in Maroni’s camp shouldn’t have direct access to him. But everyone knew that he had spared Oswald’s life. It would hardly seem surprising for Oswald to be compelled to return the favor. Besides, Maroni had confirmed Oswald and Jim’s connection himself.

“I heard your friend Gordon is in the hospital,” Maroni said to him when he came to the restaurant the afternoon after Jim had been shot. It sounded like a casual remark, a friendly gesture, but Oswald knew that he was fishing for something. 

“Yes,” Oswald said, closing the laptop he had been using to research Manning while ostensibly doing the restaurant’s finances. “He was attacked.”

“And you put a reward out for the guy.”

“I did. Jim Gordon saved my life. I can’t let someone get away with trying to kill him.”

“He’s under your protection, huh?”

Oswald got the impression that Maroni was testing him. He didn’t like it.

“You could say that, yes.”

“Good. I know it’s a little unorthodox, but I kinda like that you’re friendly with a cop in Falcone’s camp. It could be useful. And who’s going to question it? He saved your life. It would be terribly ungrateful not to like the guy.”

“That has been my thinking exactly, sir.”

“So make sure you catch this guy. It won’t do for one of my guys to look weak.”

“I will find him, I assure you.”

Maroni smiled, viper sharp.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Maroni patted him on the shoulder as he passed by him, a little more forcefully than necessary. Oswald wasn’t sure whether he should read a threat into it.

```````  
“We got a homeless guy saying that he saw a guy with a blowgun almost two nights ago near the industrial district by Old Gotham,” Bullock said, calling him past midnight. “It looks like it was after he attacked his third victim of the day, so he might have been on his way home.”

“I will look into it,.” Oswald said. “I assume the GCPD is searching the area.”

“You bet your ass we are. Listen, obviously, I haven’t told anyone about what I gave you, so if your boys and mine meet, we haven’t been speaking, ok?’’

“Absolutely.”

Oswald hung up. 

It was a sketchy part of town. Industry had come and gone and not come back again. Plenty of abandoned buildings to hide in. Which meant a lot of ground to cover. He contacted everyone who worked for him, instructing them on where to focus their search, but not to abandon any other possibilities in case it turned out to be a lark. The hospital gave him the same report as that morning. Jim’s condition hadn’t changed. No better, but also no worse, unlike the second victim, who died at four in the afternoon. 48 hours. That’s how long the first two had lasted. Just 48 hours. Jim was at 29. That left 19 hours. That was how long Jim had left to breathe on this earth before he died and abandoned Oswald forever. And there wouldn’t be another like him. Not him. God himself could not replicate a man as sublime as him. 

He drove to the area and started searching himself in the dark with a flashlight, ignoring how the winter cold made his skin shiver as he sifted through old factories that had been taken over by rats and vagrants, tripping over old boxes filled with 70s shoes and jackets, asking every homeless person he saw whether they might have seen, by chance, the man in this picture, someone carrying a blowgun, a chemistry lab, anything like that. A woman covered in sweatshirts and a ratty beanie said that she had seen “a feller carrying a funny, looking tube thing” a couple of streets up on Fullerton last night. That would have been after he had attacked Jim. He was here. Going home. Like all was right in the world. 

He gave the woman a $100 bill and rushed up the street, watching out for any lights in the windows as he texted the info to Bullock and to his men. Somewhere here was the man who could restore Jim to health and Oswald would find him. He had to. Bullock, the cops, one of the people who had taken him up on his reward offer, one of them had to find him. 

He checked his watch, the light of his flashlight flickering over the glass face as his hand trembled. 18 hours. They were down to 18 hours. Fuck. 

Fullerton was yielding nothing. He was going in the direction the woman said, although human memory was so faulty. And who knew for how long the man had walked. He had seen police cars a few blocks east of here. Oswald was heading in that direction. Maybe they would find him. Bullock might call any minute now telling him they had the antidote. 

17 hours. 

His phone rang. Not Bullock. Donovan, one of the men he had taken from Frankie Carbone.

“Do you have something?” Oswald answered. 

“We got him.”

Oswald hardly dared to breathe. 

“Where?”

“On Fullerton and Ashby, southwest corner. Second floor.” 

Only two blocks away. He had been walking in the right direction. 

“Is his lab there?”

“Lab, drug, and what he claims to be the antidote.” 

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

He was there in four. His right leg was a dead weight, his left hip was killing him, and his breath was burning in his chest from the run he’d just done, but he was there at the building, looking up at a yellow light shining through opaque glass on the second floor. Fury conquered his pain as he pulled open the front doors of what had once been a clothes store, walked all the way to the back, found the staircase in the office area, and climbed up to the storage space, now filled with beakers and vials and a man who was about to die. 

Long tables filled the space, atop which stood Bunsen burners and differently shaped glass containers, all that fun stuff from his high school chemistry class. Gabriel, the second of Frankie’s former men, held the famous blowgun, swinging it like a golf club to the left of Manning, who sat in the midst of the space tied to a chair with packing tape. Donovan guarded him at his right side. Manning’s right eye was starting to swell and blood was trickling down his nose, his crooked nose. Yes. That was him. He was shaking, eyes darting between all three of them, but focusing on Oswald in the end, eyes wide, breath coming hard and fast, much like Oswald’s, but Oswald was smiling and this man would never smile again. 

“You attacked James Gordon,” Oswald said, lethal intensity in his voice. 

“The cop?” the guy asked, fear almost swallowing his voice. “Why would you care about a cop?”

Oswald lunged forward, grabbing him by the neck, jamming his thumb into the hollow of the man’s throat.

“That,” Oswald said, “is none of your concern. He’s under my protection. That’s all that’s relevant to you. And you better have a way to cure him or I will tear out all your teeth after I’m done with your nails.”

“It’s on the table,” Manning gasped, voice a squeaky hiss. Oswald removed his hand, stepping back as Manning coughed breath back into his lungs. 

“He said it was this right here,” Gabriel said, pointing to an array of small bottles in a low, long box at the end of the first table.

“Yes,” Manning said, nodding vigorously. “That’s it.”

“What’s the dosage?” Oswald asked.

“1.5 ccs.”

“Is that the truth?” 

“Yes. I swear!” 

“Where’s the toxin you used to poison Gordon?” 

“By the darts on the table there. The small, brown bottle.”

Manning nodded behind him toward his right. Brown bottle. Yes, there it was, next to a lovely array of hunting darts sitting in a canvas bag, reds and greens and blues. A red one would do. Seemed fitting. Carefully setting down the antidote, Oswald opened the bottle and dipped the dart in the fluid. 

“1.5 ccs,” Oswald said, walking back to Manning, dart held aloft so he wouldn’t miss it. “You are absolutely sure about that?”

“Yes. 1.5. That’s the dose.”

“Because I need to be certain before I inject Gordon with it, so I need a test subject. And, since we’re very limited on options, it’s going to have to be you.”

Manning shook his head vigorously.

“There’s no need for that. It’s 1.5 ccs. I swear it is.”

“I’m afraid that verbal assurances are just not good enough. But don’t worry. If you’re telling me the truth, then you’ll be fine.”

“It is! I—“

Oswald stabbed the dart into Manning’s right arm, rejoicing at the feel of the metal cutting through muscle. Manning gasped, shuddering as Oswald yanked out the dart, head dropping onto his chest, breath quickening. His feet struggled against the chair legs they were taped to, breath hissing between his teeth, eyes shut tight as he tried his best to curl into a ball, but the tape across his chest preventing him from leaning too far forward. Oswald clutched the dart in a tight fist, wanting to stab Manning in the face over and over again, multiplying the pain coursing through his body ten fold, relishing the whimpers escaping from his panting throat, but it wasn’t time yet. He had to check the antidote, then Manning must live for a little while longer as Oswald made sure that it worked on Jim. Only then, when Jim was cured, could Oswald break his bones. 

1.5 ccs. He found syringes in the top drawer of an old file cabinet along with an assortment of first aid supplies. There were about twenty antidote bottles in the box, plenty enough to spare one. He filled a syringe, double checking that he did have the right amount of fluid in it, and stuck it into Manning’s arm, who was now keening loudly as he struggled to fall out of his chair. Oswald drew back, watching him carefully, his heart in his throat as the seconds trickled by, tick, tick, tick and Manning kept keening, but slowly his cries stopped, he ceased to struggle, and he fell back in the chair, limply staring at the ceiling, breaths slowing, eyes clearing. They focused on Oswald, fear sparking in them anew, and Oswald smiled. 

“Good,” he said, tapping Manning’s left cheek. “That’s very good.”

Straightening, he turned to his men.

“Congratulations, gentlemen. You’re both getting a big Christmas bonus this year. Gabriel, keep him alive until I return.”

Donovan drove him to the hospital. On the way, he called Bullock.

“I have the antidote,” he said when Bullock picked up the phone.

“You’re shitting me. Oh my God, that’s amazing. Are you on your way to the hospital?”

“Yes. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”

“I’m headed over there. Do you have the guy?”

“Yes, and I shall be keeping him.”

“I didn’t expect otherwise.”

They hung up. Oswald hugged the Ziploc bag of antidote bottles he held on his lap closer to him. 

16 hours. 

He’d made it. 

They weren’t happy to see him back at Jim’s ward, but he shut them up by grabbing the nearest nurse and shoving a bottle into her hand.

“Give James Gordon 1.5ccs of this,” he said. “It will cure him.”

She sputtered.

“How can I be sure that this wi—“

He glared at her as if he were about to roast her on a spit. 

“Do it. Now!”

She rushed to obey. No one else dared question him and Donovan kept everyone away from him as he watched the nurse inject the drug into the tube running into Jim’s arm. He was already so much paler than when Oswald had seen him last, dark shadows sunken around his eyes, his heart beating so slowly, too slowly to last much longer. Oswald dared to touch his cheek. His skin was burning. But the antidote was in his system now. At any moment, it would start to work. It just took a little while. But Jim had been fighting this for much longer than Manning had. What if the antidote took longer to work? What if there were permanent effects? What if he never recovered completely? 

_Please, Jim. You’re too stubborn to die from something like this. You haven’t yet had your time to shine in the sun. You’re not meant for this, not dying at the hands of a coward who wouldn’t dare to face you. Not now. Please Jim, not now._

Jim started breathing easier, his heartbeat quickening to a normal rate. 

“It’s working,” the nurse said.

Oswald looked up at her. The doorway had filled with nurses and doctors, all standing behind Donovan. Bullock was among them, staring intently at Jim through the window. The nurse was checking Jim’s temperature.

“The fever’s going to take a while to go down,” she said. “And the sedative needs to wear off, too. Do you, um.” She stopped herself at addressing him directly. “Do you have more for the others?” she continued in a timid tone.

Oswald handed over the bag.

“Thank you,” she mumbled before ducking through the gathered crowd and out of the room. Part of the crowd followed her. 

Oswald sank onto a chair, his aching legs unwilling to hold him any longer. Jim was safe. He would live. 

He would live. 

“Hey, Cobblepot,” Bullock called out. “Tell this guy to let me in.”

Oswald looked up at Bullock, who was trying to muscle his way through Donovan.

“Let him through,” he said. 

Donovan stepped back and Bullock rushed to Jim’s side, laying a hand on Jim’s forehead. 

“He feels a little cooler,” he said in a low voice, as if talking to himself. “I think.”

His clothes were disheveled, collar loose and rumpled from spending too much time being abused by nervous hands, hair a clumped up mess. Oswald hadn't slept since he had heard about Jim. It looked like neither had Bullock. A good friend. For that, Oswald would tolerate him. 

"Where did you find him?" Bullock asked.

"I don't think I should tell you that."

"Right."

"Suffice it to say, your information helped greatly."

"Good. Jim's going to be okay. That's all I care about."

They fell silent after that, each of them staring at Jim, hoping that he would wake up soon.

"Harvey!"

They both looked up to see a harried Barbara being prevented by Donovan from entering the room.

"Let her in, " Oswald said.

Donovan did, and Barbara rushed to Jim's side, taking his right hand in hers. Oswald startled at the action, suddenly feeling like a jigsaw puzzle piece that had been shoved in the wrong place. He stood up, ignoring his protesting knees. Barbara turned to him, looking surprised to see him. 

“Mr. Cobblepot,” she said.

“Ms. Kean.” 

“Harvey.” She appeared to shrink into Harvey’s side, away from Oswald. Afraid of him. “You said you guys had found an antidote. Did they give it to him?’

“Yes,” Harvey said. “He’s going to recover, Barbara. He’ll be fine.” 

“How did you find him? The guy who did this?”

“My men found him,” Oswald said. 

“Oh,” Barbara said, looking back at him. “Thank you so much. I know Jim and you are friends.”

“Yes. I couldn’t let someone get away with doing this to him.” 

He gazed once more at Jim’s face, comforting himself in seeing that he was resting easier.

“Well,” he said. “I’m going to have to leave the two of you now. Call me when he wakes up,” he told Bullock.

“Will do,” Bullock said. 

Oswald had one last loose end to tie up.

```````  
“How close are Jim and Cobblepot?” Barbara asked Harvey once Cobblepot had left.

Sighing, Harvey took off his hat and dropped into the chair Cobblepot had vacated on the other side of the bed.

“You’re going to have to ask Jim about that,” he said. “All I know is that they text a lot.”

Barbara sat on a chair by Jim’s head, not letting go of his hand.

“Can Jim trust him?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t, but I’m not Jim. Jim’s safe from him, I’m sure of that.”

“How can you be sure? I know that Jim saved his life, but I wouldn’t think that mobsters would care much about that.”

“Normally, they wouldn’t, but Cobblepot has always been a bit of an oddball. He cares for Jim. He was scared when he found out that Jim had been attacked. You’re safe from him. Don’t worry about that.”

But of course she would worry. It was the intelligent thing to do when a sociopath like Cobblepot got close to you. And Harvey would worry right along with her. Because he had seen terror in Cobblepot’s eyes half an hour ago as the nurse injected Jim with the antidote, terror that Jim wouldn’t recover. He’d also seen a hand caressing Jim’s cheek, half obscured by the nurse standing between Harvey’s eye line and Cobblepot, but he was sure of what he saw. Cobblepot had looked as if his heart would give out if Jim’s did. 

Did Jim know? Harvey doubted it. At least, he hoped not. The whole thing was too weird to think about. But should Harvey tell him? Probably. Harvey would want to know if a guy like Cobblepot was in love with him. 

`````````

“Mr. Manning.”

Manning shivered at the sound of Oswald’s voice, his entire body jerking away, but, being tied to a chair, he could hardly go far.

“I have just one question for you,” Oswald continued, “before I carry out your sentence. Why did you attack Jim Gordon?”

“Sir, please—“

Oswald silenced him with a raised finger, tsking at him.

“None of that, Mr. Manning. I don’t want to hear any words come out of your mouth that are not an answer to my question.”

Manning shut his eyes, silently deciding something.

“He’s dirty,” he said.

“This is Gotham. All the cops are dirty. Why him?”

“Because he goes around pretending to be one of the good guys when he’s not. Falcone was supposedly after him because Gordon didn’t kill someone for him, but then Falcone let him life. Clearly, Gordon made a deal with him. He had to have. But he still pretends that he’s as clean as holy water. But he’s not.”

“That’s it? You tried to kill him because you’re precious principles felt betrayed?”

“He’s a liar. The other ones don’t pretend to be clean when they’re not.”

“Well, then. Since you are so concerned with honesty, I shall reveal to you a little something. This someone Gordon was supposed to kill. Do you remember his name?”

Manning frowned.

“Not really. Cob something. Why?”

“Would it happen to be Cobblepot?”

“Yeah. I think that’s it.”

“My apologies. It appears that I forgot to introduce myself.” Oswald placed his hand over his heart and leaned his head forward in a mock bow. “I am Oswald Cobblepot.”

Manning’s breathing quickened again. He pushed against his chair as Oswald stepped closer, eyes wide as he leaned down, lifting Manning’s left index finger gently up with one hand, pushing it to its bending point.

“And you, Mr. Manning, you tried to kill my savior.”

He wrenched Manning’s finger forward, breaking the knuckle. Manning screamed.

“You see now, Mr. Manning…”

Oswald broke another finger. Manning screamed again. 

“…why I would care about this cop?”

Another finger. 

“There is only one thing that happens to people who harm Jim Gordon.”

A fourth finger. Tears were streaming out of Manning’s eyes.

“They die.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who made it this far. 
> 
> I am currently writing the aftermath of Jim's poisoning. It was originally going to be part of this story, but I decided that, thematically, it worked better as a different story.


End file.
